Christmas Tidings
by Tammany Tiger
Summary: Mycroft's Christmas Eve, during Scandal in Belgravia.


**Christmas Tidings**

Christmas Eve, 2011, Somewhere in the Home Counties

It was snowing, a point Mycroft Homes could only find ironic: surreal natural stage dressing for a Christmas Eve he would not experience—a Christmas Eve intended for some Southern England unknown to modern man, in which it didn't reliably piss down rain throughout December anywhere within five hundred miles of London. An imaginary world in which Holmeses gathered in cheerful Dickensian mobs to sing and pull crackers and generally go about making merry and playing "happy families," and possibly even planning to attend Morning Mass in the family chapel prior to opening presents around a nicely decorated Victorian tree. Someplace that, like Never-Never Land and Oz, was filled with twee possibilities unknown to Mycroft for much of his life, and becoming more unknown by the nanosecond.

He had, of course, invitations. He'd even attended one event earlier that evening. As the senior member of one of the old County families he had social obligations, so he'd sat through a mediocre local rendition of Handel's Messiah, sung with gusto if limited accuracy by a mob of amateur local enthusiasts. He'd applauded diplomatically. Afterward, at the reception, he'd drunk weak punch, smiled at his fellow guests, and told the usual drab, colorless lies about his life and his career. He'd told slightly more truth about his brother, who was still remembered with a blend of affection and dread by the local community. Now that Dr. Watson had taken up blogging about Sherlock, they locals had come to a delicate social balance regarding their renegade misfit: seen from the comforting distance of miles and decades, they were able to treat Sherlock as an engaging scamp long since gone on to become a minor celebrity.

So unlike dear Mycroft, they murmured, blending affection and disapproval of both brothers in one damning statement: Milquetoast and Melodrama, both easily enough dismissed. Which was, after all, Mycroft had to admit, the intended image he promoted. He no more wanted to be known for his real work than he wanted Sherlock known for his real virtues or vagaries: either option invited trouble…and by trouble Mycroft meant danger on potentially international scales.

He would honestly have preferred Dr. Watson not persist in his blogging endeavor—but it brought both the doctor and Sherlock some independence, and it kept the doctor happy. Mycroft was so relieved to have Sherlock involved in a stable, supportive friendship with a man who had a vivid and non-recreational understanding of the meaning of "addiction," that the notoriety brought by the blog was worth overlooking. Sherlock was, for the first time in decades, experiencing something that Mycroft thought might actually meet the criteria for "happiness."

Which was why Mycroft had absolutely refused to accept one of the other invitations he'd received—this one by email only a few days before.

_Dear Mycroft,_

_Sherlock and I are having a little get-together over at ours on Christmas Eve. Nothing much, I'm afraid: a few drinks, and maybe I'll manage to bribe Sherlock to play something festive on that fiddle. I think there's likely to be a bit of minor gift-giving, but we've tried to head that off at the pass. Let's be honest, your brother'd like nothing better than tech most of us can't afford, and body parts none of us want to provide, not even Miss Hooper down in the St. Bart's morgue. So I've tried to discourage mystery boxes in favor of plans for booze and a spot by the fireplace. As a member of the extended family, consider yourself invited._

_Yours,_

_John W._

Mycroft's response had been quick and unwavering.

_Dear Dr. Watson,_

_Good lord, are you determined to doom your party before it even starts? Me? Sherlock? In one room on Christmas Eve? I've already suggested what the hols were like in our family, my dear man. You should take it as a cautionary warning._

_Seriously, my thanks for the invitation, but all participants will be happier if I decline…and 221B is far more likely to be found intact come Christmas morning._

_As for the subject of gifts… John, for the first time in over a decade I have a hope of not spending the evening in active terror over Sherlock's likely recreational activities. That is not simply a gift, but a treasure worthy of the Wise Men. If, to repay it, you would like me to placate Sherlock with a government-backed tech budget and permanent enrollment in the "Great British Body Parts of the Month Club," you need but ask. Though I will admit the later sounds rather scandalous, now I consider the matter…_

_Again, my thanks. Please, consider my refusal the kindest thing I could arrange for you for Christmas—and know that you may call for far more, should it ever prove necessary._

_Yours in gratitude,_

_Mycroft Holmes._

Watson had emailed back;

_Eh, hold the plans for the body parts and the tech budget. I can't promise you a whole night free of fear. Party's just for an hour or so, then I'm off with Jeanette for a bit of serious Christmas cheer…at least, that's the hope and prayer. In any case, if you change your mind you're still welcome,_

_JW._

Mycroft found Watson a fascinating choice of companion for his brother. An odd blend indeed, mixing equal parts gruff badger, deadly military dog, gentle physician, and…well…

One hated to admit the man could be a bit of a patsy. But there it was. He was honest, straightforward, lied dreadfully, and he left Mycroft wishing there was some phrase for "straight arrow" that exceeded worldly straightness. The sort of straightness that begged for quantum physics to describe it, as Watson's forthright qualities seemed almost fantastical to Mycroft, who lived in a world in which a corkscrew often served as the mere starting point for devious twistiness.

Still, he suited Sherlock, and Sherlock apparently suited him. As a result Mycroft could dream of the possibility of his brother leading a happy life for at least some time to come. It was a blessing, and Mycroft took his blessings where he found them.

He had already eaten his meal for the evening before going out to listen to the Messiah. He'd dismissed the staff of the Holmes country estate for the next few days: unfair to keep them on the property to serve one single man when their own families and holidays called. The silence of the building was both eerie and comforting. Not that he kept much staff in any case. Most of his time he was in London, and put up in his rooms at the Diogenes, these days, and the old house was usually empty of all but a skeleton staff except when a tour group came through.

Perhaps, he thought, pouring himself a scotch, I should have stayed in London.

No. He admitted to himself that he hungered on occasion for the country, for all he was a city man in his daily affairs. It was good to have horizons more than a street-width away. And he'd seen a deer that morning mincing gingerly across the wide terrace off the Rose Room. Out walking he'd been joined by a black cocker spaniel apparently playing hooky from a more domestic life, and together he and the dog had flushed quail and pheasants from the fields around the estate. Sherlock showed no sign of yearning for the family acres—he seemed to live and breathe London with an enthusiasm that even exceeded his passions for either mystery or cocaine.

Mycroft was unsure why. The boy had loved the land well enough in his youth, spending far too much time finding mud, muck, and other mess to get into. Sometimes Mycroft worried that it was a response to Mycroft's own position as the senior son: a wise second child refused to invest his heart in a place that could never be his own. Mycroft, though, had known early that he was unlikely to wed and produce children, regardless of social pressure. He was quite sure, too, that Sherlock knew: his brother was, on occasion, too quick to smirk and make a point of that knowledge for Mycroft to suffer under any illusion he'd kept his sexuality a secret. If Sherlock had wanted to invest himself in a future as a country squire, it would never have been ruled out.

Between Mycroft's orientation, his social reserve, and his career, the odds of him finding anything permanent seemed staggeringly small. Mycroft had once thought to assign Sherlock as his estate manager, with the open understanding of eventual inheritance to justify both the position and any marriage and family building Sherlock might wish to contemplate.

Then, of course, Sherlock had discovered cocaine and London. Between the two the option had been closed off. Trusting Sherlock with the family holdings was an impossibility. He couldn't even be trusted to manage his own funds, even now.

Mycroft put another log on the fire. The hiss of snow outside the window, the hiss and crackle of the fire inside the room: that was all the sound to be heard. The room was dark, but for a small lamp and the fire. Above, Mycroft's room awaited. It was also dark. The old bed was made up with cold, crisp linen sheets that, he knew, would feel almost icy on slipping in. They'd slowly warm as he lay curled in them, alone, listening to wind and snow-fall.

As a very small child he'd believed in Father Christmas…believed with the profound passion only the very intelligent child can summon up, blended from story and imagination. He could recall a night on which he could have sworn he saw a sleigh in the sky, and heard the jingle of bells. It was probably the last year before Sherlock had been born…after little Sigrun had been born, but before her cot death later in the year.

After that Mycroft had given up a lot of his beliefs in favor of a desperate attempt to compensate for a reality which had proven terrifyingly untrustworthy. Of one thing he had been quite determined: he couldn't bring Sigrun back. He could, however, keep watch over baby Sherlock when he arrived.

He could recall slipping from his own bed in the nursery after all the adults had fled the field. He'd pull up the little wooden chair from the nursery table and sit by the cot, watching over his brother. It was hard to make himself focus on each breath. One in. One out. One in. One out.

Too often he fell asleep, only waking as the house stirred into early morning rituals of servants and staff. He'd slip back to bed, feeling both relieved that Sherlock had lived through another night, and ashamed that he himself had once more fallen asleep on duty.

He seldom admitted to himself how much of his discipline and drive grew out of those nights of fear and determination and failure. He never admitted it to anyone else. But, then, whom else did he have to confess to? Sherlock?

Only if he wished to be punished for an old love, and an old, old duty. Sherlock would be appalled.

It had been years since Mycroft had been blessed with a close friend, or a lover in more than convenience. Even those few inside the walls of the secret service who had access to his records and claim on his limited trust were not of the sort in whom one placed such confidence. The privacy to wjich his own nature inclined him was demanded by his career to an exaggerated degree.

The scotch was gone, by now. He poured himself another finger's worth.

The glass was high quality cut crystal. The scotch was aged single malt.

He raised it to the empty room. "To a peaceful Christmas Eve, and a Happy Christmas Morning," he murmured.

The room, not unsurprisingly, failed to murmur back.

He settled again in the armchair, staring into the fire. A dog, he thought, would be nice. Perhaps one could borrow dogs? Make arrangements to reserve that little cocker he'd walked with that morning, the one with fur as wavy and soft and black as young Sherlock's hair had been? A dog, a fireplace, a glass of scotch. No international emergencies? Shouldn't that be heaven on earth? And he had all of them except the dog, after all.

The mobile in his pocket vibrated, and he pulled it out, thumbing it on. Sherlock's ID flashed.

Sherlock?

On Christmas Eve?

Perhaps John's party had caused the boy to wax sentimental…

_Oh, dear lord. We're not going to have Christmas phone calls, now, are we? Have they passed a new law?_

_I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight._

_We already know where she is. As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters._

_No. I mean you're going to find her dead._

And, yes, dear God. They found her dead… at least, it seemed likeliest. Mycroft called Sherlock in to confirm.

So much to watch. So much to try to understand. So much tension. You could cut the air between Sherlock and that mild little morgue tech with a knife—and the tension between them was far from one-sided, which was intriguing. But, then, so was Sherlock's reaction to the body. Not to mention what about the body he recalled.

One was always so uncertain where to assign Sherlock's passions, wasn't one? And, yet…

And he was so stressed. That Mycroft could never fail to see. That one thing Sherlock could never successfully hide.

Whatever the various emotional currents in that morgue, the death of Irene Adler was not a non-event for his baby brother.

It was a hell of a way to spend Christmas Eve. Or was it Christmas morning by now?

Out in the hallway Sherlock stood alone, tense as a greyhound before a race.

Mycroft felt the fear shudder through him. He knew how Sherlock dealt with his emotions.

Dr. Watson had recommended a trick, months previously, as he and Mycroft dealt with the aftermath of Sherlock going off the wagon during a dry spell. Mycroft wasn't sure whether he and the good doctor were now trapped in codependent enabling of his brother, or were his keepers, or what. But whatever they were, there were skills that went with the position. He slipped a cigarette from the pack and offered it, studying Sherlock's response.

Studying the deep, hungry pull of smoke.

_Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?_

Mycroft looked down the corridor, as Sherlock did, to the family beyond, wailing out their loss, clinging together in grief on a Christmas morning. Of course there was something wrong with them. Two people did not become so alienated, so alone, so outside the circle of warmth, unless there was something wrong. Or at least, something different. The question was not whether there was something wrong, but how to endure it. What could be said?

_All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

Let it go, baby brother. And don't despair: we still stand together, even when we're alone. Let it pass. Let it go. Don't mourn who you are, but cling to what it gains you. We may be alien to them, but you must not care about that, for we are never alien to each other.

Except that was not enough… and when Sherlock felt the emptiness, he tried to fill it.

When he left, Mycroft rang the little doctor. He was, not, he feared, gentle, nor willing to compromise.

He couldn't afford to be. He could live without a dog by the fireplace. He could bear to listen to the wind and the snow in silence. He could live alone for a million years. But to stand alone at the end of that dark morgue corridor, with no one to turn to and Sherlock dead on a slab behind him? To be truly, finally alone? To fail to protect the baby? To come to the end of it all?

No.

He walked out into the snow of Christmas morning. The sky was still dark. The traffic slow and scant—even London slowed down for Christmas day. There were few people on the streets. Mycroft called for a taxi to take him to the Diogenes. There was work to be done.

A nurse, coming off duty on the floors above the morgue, smiled at him. "Merry Christmas. Peace on earth, good will to men, yeah?" She sparkled, eyes bright, ready for a holiday after her night's work.

"An outcome devoutly to be wished," Mycroft said, dryly.

"Yeah," she said, contented. "Me for the tree and the Christmas presents, now. But it's good to remember what it's all about. What part do you think about? What's the best part of the whole story?"

Mycroft closed his eyes, praying John and Mrs. Hudson hadn't missed a spot, hadn't failed to find a packet of white powder. He prayed that Sherlock would go home and sleep, rather than rambling through London looking for a dealer. He prayed that the death of one vicious blackmailer would not undo months of slow healing.

He said, softly, "The best part? It's when the angel says, 'Fear not.'"

The snow came down and down and the wind blew, and he tried to believe in angel's wings passing. But that, like Father Christmas, was lost to him, and all that was left was to sit by the baby's empty cradle and pray that this was an Easter story, as well as a Christmas story.


End file.
